Gaye got to her feet. She looked sensationally lovely in the sky blue cotton dress she was wearing: a dress that clung to her figure. The three men watched her.
'Well, I'll leave you and take a tub. I want some sleep. I didn't sleep a wink on the plane.'
She nodded to them and left the room. Garry stretched and yawned.
'Me too . . . unless you want me for anything else?'
'No.' Fennel looked at Ken. 'How about the equipment? Have you got that lined up?'
'I think so. I'll take a bath and go check. A friend of mine is organizing it for me. I sent him a cable from London telling him what we want. I'll go over there and see how far he's got. Do you want to come with me?'
'Why not? Okay, I'll wait here for you.'
Garry and Ken went along the corridor to their rooms. They were all on the eighth floor: each had a small suite with an air conditioner and a view of the city.
'Well, see you,' Garry said, pausing at his door. 'This could be a tricky one.'
Ken grinned. Garry had now learned that Ken was an incurable optimist.
'You never know . . . could work out fine. Me for the tub,' and he went off whistling to his room.
An hour later, he returned to Fennel's room. Fennel had been punishing the whisky and looked a little flushed.
'Shall we go?' Ken asked, leaning against the doorway.
'Yeah.' Fennel got to his feet and the two men walked along the corridor to the lifts.
'This pal of mine runs a garage on Plein Street,' Ken said as the lift descended. 'It's just across the way. We can walk.'
They pushed their way through another consignment of American tourists who had just arrived. The noise they were making made both men wince.
'What makes an American so noisy?' Ken asked good humouredly. 'Do they imagine everyone around is stone deaf?' Fennel grunted.
'I wouldn't know. Maybe they weren't taught as kids to keep their goddamn traps shut.'
They paused under the canopy of the hotel and surveyed the rain sweeping Bree Street.
'If it's going to rain like this in the Drakensberg Range we're in for a hell of a time,' Ken said, turning up his jacket collar. 'Come on . . . may as well start getting wet . . . it'll be good practice.'
Their heads bent against the driving rain, the two men walked briskly across to Plein Street.
Sam Jefferson, the owner of the garage, a tall, thin elderly man with a pleasant, freckled face greeted them.
'Hi Ken! Had a good trip?'
Ken said the trip was fine and introduced Fennel. Jefferson lost some of his sunny smile as he shook hands. He was obviously a little startled at the cold, hard expression on Fennel's face. Fennel wasn't his kind of people.
'I got all the stuff and it's there laid out for you,' he went on turning to Ken. 'Take a look. If there's anything I've forgotten, let me know. Excuse me now. I've got a gear box in my hair.' Nodding, he went off across the big garage to where two Bantus were staring vacantly at a jacked up Pontiac.
Ken led the way to a small, inner garage where a Land Rover was parked. A Bantu, sitting on his haunches and scratching his ankle got slowly to his feet and gave Ken a wide, white toothy grin.
'All okay, boss,' he said, and Ken shook hands with him. 'This is Joe,' he said to Fennel. 'Sam and he have collected all the stuff we need.'
Fennel had no time for coloured people. He glowered at the smiling Bantu, grunted and turned away. There was an awkward pause, then Ken said, 'Well, Joe, let's see what you've got.'
The Bantu crossed to the Land Rover and pulled off the tarpaulin that covered the bonnet. 'I got it fixed like you said, boss.'
Welded to the front of the radiator was a drum between two steel supports. Around the drum was wound a long length of thin
